IN THIS EPISODE: The Story (such as it is) begins…

Installments of Confessions of a Trophy Queen will appear on an irregular basis as the mood—and world events—strike me.  (Though strong Patreon support may make them more frequent.)

This tale may contain adult concepts and language.

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Confessions of a Trophy Queen

A.K.A. The Mrs. Drumpfle Thinskin Diaries

(Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely satirical.)

Day 1

Dear Diary,

I honestly believed (hoped, actually) that this day would never come, but here it is.  In a few hours, I will be crowned Queen.

Or, more accurately, my husband, Drumpf will be crowned King of the Orange-Mane Dwarves—Drumpfle Thinskin the First—and I will become Queen by default.

But whose fault?

I guess in the end, one has to blame the dwarves themselves, because of their obscure succession rituals—though certainly my husband’s wealth (and sympathetic ownership of the clan printing operations) helped, as did the sudden and mysterious illness of his chief rival.

But none of that matters now. It’s all done and past.  What matters is that “The Drumpf” (as his first wife dubbed him) won.

This is not what I bargained for when I married the little troll.

So, now I’m expected to blithely pack up the children and my husband’s prized possessions and move out of our fabulous penthouse in Kroywen and into the bowels of the underearth–the very asshole of existence.  We’re trading our tower-view apartments for the shabby Ivory Palace of the Orange-Mane Dwarves, located smack dab in the center of their grubby subterranean realm, deep below the swamps of Colu’ Miab.

Never has a so-called “step up” been both literally and metaphorically such a step down!

Dearest Diary, you may think me a churl to even complain of such things.  After all, what I did I start with in life?  Nothing save the love of my hard-working peasant parents and a fortunate measure of good looks.

“Never take what you have for granted, Melody Novo,” my mother frequently used to say.

“All of us must use what the gods have given us to best advantage,” my father often counseled.  “And, though I hesitate to say it, my daughter, because certainly you’re a bright enough girl, your assets definitely include your beauty.”

And so that’s what I did—that’s how I rose in station—I took best advantage of my gods-given assets.

I traded my ass for wealth and station.

And now here I am, moving from one of the most glorious, cosmopolitan cities in the Blue Kingdoms to the swamp pits of Colu’Miab.

Shit.

To Be Continued…